


Love Exists in Eight Hours Between Heaven and Hell

by AppleSharon



Series: Good Omens Kink Meme Prompt Fills [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Anal Sex, Bathing/Washing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, soft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2020-06-26 15:25:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19771072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AppleSharon/pseuds/AppleSharon
Summary: When they did attempt spoken communication, it would often end quite poorly for one or both parties, culminating in hurtful verbal sparring matches like their more recent rows at the bandstand or kerbside in front of the angel’s bookshop.The circumstances of communication in their relationship, in a word, unfortunate, given the fact that they loved each other very much.When considering the multiple millennia between them, it was quite ridiculous.So She, in her infinite wisdom, granted them a reprieve.They had eight hours.Another "You can stay at my place" fic, based on this prompt:"I need the night before their executions so badly. Both of them realizing they have nothing left to lose and no one there to stop them from being together anymore."





	1. Hour One

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Good Omens kink meme. The prompt is as follows:
> 
> "I need the night before their executions so badly. Both of them realizing they have nothing left to lose and no one there to stop them from being together anymore. Neither of them caring if they get their feelings hurt because they've already been to the end of the world together. That scene on the bench makes me so soft..... please......"
> 
> There will be one chapter for every hour as these two sort through things together the night before their trials.

A certain human scientific study once posited that all it takes for two humans to fall in love is mere hours and the right questions to foster meaningful communication. 

A certain angel (Aziraphale, Principality, Guardian of the Eastern Gate of Eden, Earth Correspondent) and a certain demon (Crowley, née Crawly/Crawley, Serpent of Eden, Earth Correspondent) had been given over 6,000 years of time.

The problem was that they had rarely, truly communicated through anything but oddly grand gestures (on the part of the demon) and offers of food and drink (usually on the part of the angel but also sometimes on the part of the demon). In the case of the demon, he had understood the meaning behind his own gestures but realized the angel did not. In the case of the angel, he pretended to not understand the meaning behind his own gestures at all — truthfully he did understand, to an extent, but didn't allow himself to think on it overly much.

They certainly didn’t ask the right questions — the angel tried to avoid asking questions altogether in most cases — and hadn’t fostered open communication beyond a sly glance behind coloured lenses or a flushed smile while topping off the other’s drink. There was Heaven to think about. There was Hell to think about. And, perhaps most importantly, there were their own personal histories to consider which made everything far more of a quagmire than it ought to have been. 

This meant that when they did attempt spoken communication, it would often end quite poorly for one or both parties, culminating in hurtful verbal sparring matches like their more recent rows at the bandstand or kerbside in front of the angel’s bookshop. 

The circumstances of communication in their relationship, in a word, unfortunate, given the fact that they loved each other very much. 

When considering the multiple millennia between them, it was quite ridiculous. 

So She, in her infinite wisdom, granted them a reprieve. 

They had eight hours.

Uninformed of this rather strict time limit, the two were wholly unaware of what was to come and seated on opposite ends of a bench at a Tadfield bus stop. 

Their conversation was progressing as all conversations between the two of them had previously gone — without much on the surface of their chosen words, hidden, yawning caverns beneath, and inching ever forward only for one of them to pull back at the last possible moment. 

This time — admittedly most times throughout their history — it was the angel specifically who pulled back first. 

Aziraphale watched as the demon’s shoulders slouched ever-so-slightly. The motion would have been imperceptible to anyone but Aziraphale, who knew Crowley’s mannerisms down to the most minute detail. 

He was a detail-oriented angel, after all. 

The bus stopped with a gasp of exhaust that may have made Pollution quite proud were they still present. Crowley boarded the bus first. Aziraphale followed. 

A cursory glance around the bus revealed no other humans save the driver, who Crowley had already influenced with a quick snap of his fingers. Crowley sat down on the left side, sliding down to the window seat.

Wheezing forward with a start, the bus lurched with Aziraphale still standing. He stumbled, nearly falling onto the aisle floor. 

“Sit down, angel.”

There were several emotions in Crowley’s voice, but the one that stood out to Aziraphale most at this moment in time was utter exhaustion. 

It had, after all, been a rather long day for both of them. 

“Yes I do believe I shall.”

Aziraphale said this absentmindedly while staring at Crowley. The demon had already leaned up against the window, his head in his hands. Although the sunglasses remained stubbornly perched on Crowley’s hawkish nose, Aziraphale imagined that Crowley’s eyes were closed in an attempt to sleep. 

Throughout many not-so-accidental meetings on buses and other forms of public transit over the years, he had never sat beside Crowley. The first time, the demon had attempted to clamber into the seat next to Aziraphale all gangly limbs and a slouch that somehow felt lustful — not that Aziraphale would know what that felt like whatsoever — and the angel had instantly told Crowley to sit behind him if they absolutely had to speak. 

Their sides had to be considered. 

Crowley had immediately made his way to the seat behind Aziraphale for all other public transit meetings following the first. 

After pulling himself up, Aziraphale stood for another moment in the aisle before sliding into the seat beside Crowley. He folded his hands primly in his lap and stood, ramrod straight, against the back of the — rather uncomfortable in Aziraphale’s opinion — hard plastic seat back. He shifted, moving his arms.

A negligible tensing of his jaw and a raised eyebrow were the only signs Crowley offered that he had noticed Aziraphale’s presence at all. 

“Crowley I—“

His voice faltered for a moment. He could see his reflection in the window: pale and just as exhausted as Crowley looked. 

Crowley’s right hand brushed against the fabric around Aziraphale’s left wrist on the shared armrest. Soot covered Crowley’s long, slender fingers, smudging his knuckles and fingernails black.

He reached forward and took Crowley’s hand in his. 

The demon shivered, leaving his fingers loose as Aziraphale ran his own hand over Crowley’s. Tentatively, Aziraphale turned it over. There was more soot in the palm of his hand, making the slight folds of skin appear in relief like winding roads on a map. Aziraphale’s fingertips trailed across these lines lightly, marvelling at their complexity. The demon shivered again and exhaled slowly. 

Aziraphale could taste wine and smoke. It was a miracle that Crowley had managed to drive to Tadfield in a burning car. He would have to ask Crowley about it later. 

“Crowley, my dear. I do believe I shall take you up on your offer after all.”

The demon said nothing. His shoulders remained tense, his fingers loose in Aziraphale’s hand. 

“If you’ll still have me that is,” Aziraphale whispered. 

Another moment passed. Crowley struck suddenly, wrapping his fingers around Aziraphale’s and squeezing them so tightly that a human would have likely cried out in pain. 

Aziraphale responded with a squeeze of his own, holding Crowley’s hand firmly. 

Finally, the demon relaxed and slouched even further back in his seat. 

“Okay,” Crowley said with a low rasp. 

Neither angel nor demon spoke for the remainder of their ride back to London. Their hands remained intertwined, Aziraphale stroking Crowley’s palm intermittently.


	2. Hour Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It was a bit like human peripheral vision, the angel mused. Crowley was always there at the edges, wherever Aziraphale turned to look, but rarely in front of him. Perhaps his hypothetical response to the hypothetical question of the location of Crowley’s flat should have been:_
> 
> _“Oh, here and there. Crowley exists between Mayfair and Soho.”_
> 
> _And wasn’t that something._

Aziraphale had known for quite some time that Crowley’s flat was in Mayfair. And, despite his limited — theatres, favourite restaurants, and public locales that he and Crowley had decided upon in advance as meeting places — knowledge of London’s city streets, he also knew that Soho did, in fact, border Mayfair. 

This meant that theoretically, Aziraphale knew that Crowley lived in close proximity. It was different in practice, as a bus that had been meant for Oxford chugged up past Blackfriars and left towards King’s College carrying one demon and one angel. 

As far as human distances went, Crowley had been so close to Aziraphale this entire time. 

Prior to the Apocalypse-that-wasn’t, had anyone asked Aziraphale where Crowley lived, the angel would have looked up from a book and answered with a distracted wave. 

“Oh, here and there. Somewhere about Mayfair if I recall.”

He’d been to Crowley’s flat a grand total of three times, although he’d yet to see the interior, and had failed to remember the distinct location after each appearance on Crowley’s doorstep. 

Yet even then, Aziraphale realized as he continued to stroke Crowley’s palm, occasionally eliciting shivers from the demon, he hadn’t associated Mayfair with Crowley. For that matter, he hadn’t associated any particular location with Crowley the being, who lived in a bit of a liminal space between one place to the next. 

The demon had always simply existed, casually appearing at the bookshop whenever he felt like annoying Aziraphale or calling in a favour or could somehow sense that the angel wanted company for a spot of lunch. 

It was a bit like human peripheral vision, the angel mused. Crowley was always there at the edges, wherever Aziraphale turned to look, but rarely in front of him. Perhaps his hypothetical response to the hypothetical question of the location of Crowley’s flat should have been:

“Oh, here and there. Crowley exists between Mayfair and Soho.”

And wasn’t that something. 

“So close,” Aziraphale spoke aloud. His lips immediately pursed and tightened after the words slipped out unbidden. 

He wondered where Crowley would exist with no bookshop. He wondered where he would exist with no bookshop.

Crowley gripped his hand tighter as if Aziraphale was about to pull away, drawing the angel’s attention back to the present. 

“Your flat, my dear,” Aziraphale said for clarification. “It’s been so close to the bookshop this entire time. Why, it’s remarkable that you decided to drive the Bentley so often when you could have walked.”

Words continued to tumble out of Aziraphale’s mouth in the nervous way he had (and loathed to have) when he didn’t know quite what to say. The physical proximity of Crowley was already overwhelming — the demon smelled like fire burning and red wine but also of a heady musk that was distinctly Crowley and distracting to Aziraphale — and he felt rather annoyed with himself for not knowing just how close Crowley had been all these years. 

He should have asked, Heaven be damned. 

“Less than 2km,” Crowley rasped after a pause. 

His jaw tensed again. The bus lurched to the right and Crowley’s shoulder brushed into Aziraphale’s. Crowley adjusted himself in his seat. Aziraphale somehow felt the loss of his touch, the absence of a tiny heat. Crowley wasn’t a warm person physically but Aziraphale felt him all the same. His jacket left a smear of soot on Aziraphale’s shoulder, staining his cream-coloured sleeve.

“I wasn’t always coming from my flat.”

Another pause. Crowley’s jaw remained clenched, grinding his teeth for a moment. 

“And I enjoyed the Bentley.” 

“Of course,” Aziraphale said. 

He patted the top of Crowley’s right hand, fingers still intertwined in his left, with his own right hand, resting it on top. Crowley responded by moving his left hand over and gripping their hands in an awkward pile. 

Aziraphale smiled up at Crowley. The demon’s jaw relaxed. 

“I am so sorry about your car, dear.”

Crowley shook his head. Aziraphale wished he could pull Crowley’s glasses from his nose so he could see the demon’s eyes. Everything suddenly seemed so new and open and he felt as if Crowley was somehow still in hiding, slowly retreating and coiling in on himself throughout the hour-long bus ride. 

“It’s alright angel,” Crowley said in a tone that indicated that it was, very much not alright but that he also didn’t want to talk about it. It was the same melancholy tone that had said, “It burned down, remember?” not an hour ago. 

This time, Aziraphale was the one squeezing Crowley’s hand tightly. The demon returned the gesture. 

Another lurch and the bus came to an abrupt start. The doors hissed open and the driver looked around, bewildered, as two grown men walked out hand in hand into the damp night air. Aziraphale paused, seeing the bus off with a wiggle of his free hand. 

“I took care of it,” Crowley said. His shoulders drooped slightly as he keyed in a combination with his left hand, refusing to release his grip on Aziraphale. 

“Ah, that’s very ni—thank you, my dear.”

The bus driver would later return home hours late with a surplus of £800 mysteriously in his pockets. 

Crowley clung to Aziraphale as if the angel would discorporate at any moment and Aziraphale, for once, found no reason to force his usual distance between them. The demon squeezed Aziraphale’s hand again, this time with an odd urgency that sent a pleasant shiver down Aziraphale’s spine. He looked up at Crowley brightly, squeezing back. 

The door to Crowley’s flat was still blown open, and Crowley stopped suddenly at the threshold, taking a wide step forward. 

“Mind your step, angel.”

Aziraphale leaned forward, peering down at a brackish pool of water seeping into Crowley’s carpet, a crumpled dark overcoat half-eaten away by what appeared to be acid. After a few seconds, Aziraphale realized exactly what it was. 

“Oh! Oh my how horrid. Crowley, did they really?”

“Just, mind your step,” Crowley said with a sigh. “Now you see why I thought they—“ 

At this Crowley gestured wildly at his high, sparse ceilings. 

“—Had gotten to you.” 

“Had gotten to me? Crowley whatever are you talking about?”

Aziraphale took a large, careful step over what he now knew to be a deceased demon in a dark flat. Crowley snapped his fingers and cool lighting flooded each room. It was all very distant and stark. Aziraphale wildly looked around as much as possible while Crowley, still holding his hand, dragged him into a sleek, modern kitchen. 

“Drink?” Crowley asked, finally dropping Aziraphale’s hand. 

The angel flexed his fingers, feeling the loss of warmth and something else he couldn’t quite identify. 

“Yes please. Red wine?”

“Was thinking something stronger, angel, but whatever you want.”

With a small, efficient flourish, Crowley produced a bottle of Valderiz 2014 Juegabolos Ribera del Duero.

“Something new, then?” Aziraphale asked, regarding the bottle with interest.

Crowley shrugged.

“Seemed the time for it.”

Not to let something of interest drop, Aziraphale remembered Crowley’s words moments ago and pressed forward while watching wine slosh around the bowls of two glasses on Crowley’s otherwise bare countertop. 

“Crowley, when you said ‘had gotten to me.’ What exactly were you talking about?”

The demon sighed, draining his full glass of wine before pouring himself another one and handing it directly to Aziraphale. His eyebrows were raised above his sunglasses.

He looked wan, exhausted, and too tired for their usual artiface that would accompany any sort of serious argument like this before they actually reached the point, and potentially went their separate ways. 

“I thought they killed you.”

Aziraphale sipped his wine. It was good, if not to his exact taste like the tried and true classics the two had shared more frequently over the past eleven years. 

“I went to the bookshop. It was burning.”

Crowley sounded distant. Aziraphale wished he could see the demon’s eyes. 

“I didn’t know,” Crowley continued. He drained another glass and refilled it. 

“I didn’t know if it was hellfire or—“ Crowley gestured wildly again, like he had at the ceiling and the remains of a demon in his doorway. 

“I didn’t know.”

Aziraphale placed his wineglass on the counter and moved towards Crowley. 

“Oh, my dear. I’m so sorry. I had just been discorporated and not—“

“I didn’t know that, angel!” 

Crowley was yelling now. He dragged his hand through his hair, small flecks of ash falling from it onto his shoulders. 

“I ran in and you weren’t there! You weren’t— I couldn’t feel you anywhere.”

“Crowley.”

Aziraphale drew closer. He reached up, removing Crowley’s sunglasses from his face. Golden-yellow irises with slit pupils stared back at him, watery with unshed tears. Soot covered Crowley’s face, save where the lenses had blocked it in lighter rings of untouched skin around his eyes. Aziraphale brushed his fingers gently, moving stray strands of Crowley’s bangs from his forehead. The demon trembled, placing shaky hands at Aziraphale’s hips. 

“Dearest.”

He leaned up to touch Crowley’s forehead with his own. It was gritty from soot and sweat but soft. Crowley’s breath came out in short stutters, warm gasps into Aziraphale’s mouth. Shifting, Aziraphale could feel the soft hardness of Crowley through his waistcoat, pressing into his belly.

Crowley opened his eyes. Aziraphale held him there, pressed against the sterile countertop, simply enjoying the demon’s presence — the breath that he didn’t need to live, the smell of soot from the bookshop and the Bentley, the tang of Tempranillo in his mouth. 

Another moment and Aziraphale surged forward, crushing Crowley’s lips to his. A warm jolt coursed through his body.

Had it always been like this?

It had never been like this. 

Crowley whined, gripping Aziraphale’s hips tightly. 

“Crowley, Crowley.”

Aziraphale panted, rubbing his nose against Crowley’s. A low chuckle rumbled through the demon and Aziraphale could feel it, Crowley’s body pressed to his own. 

“Angel,” the demon gasped. 

A single tear streaked down Crowley’s cheek. As Aziraphale reached up to brush it away, Crowley reached up and netted their fingers together. Giggling, Aziraphale continued to rub his nose and cheek against Crowley’s face before reaching for his glass of wine. 

“To our side,” Aziraphale said solemnly.

Crowley blinked. He watched the angel for what felt, in that moment, like hours but was mere minutes. Reaching behind him for his own glass, Crowley nodded. A dazzling smile made its way across the demon’s face and suddenly Aziraphale felt blinded.

“Okay,” Crowley said, echoing his words on the bus. 

“Okay, angel.”


	3. Hour Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Are you flirting with me, angel?”_
> 
> _Aziraphale stood on his toes, back straight and shoulders squared, wriggling as he continue to stroke Crowley’s face._
> 
> _“My dear, I do believe that I am.”_
> 
> _It was the same dance, the same give and take, push and pull, but wholly different at the same time._

Each time Crowley said “Okay,” Aziraphale heard something slightly different. The demon’s voice cracked on every one, sounding more broken with each iteration. 

“Okay, of course the offer still stands, angel.”

“Okay, I’m ready.”

“Okay, angel—“

The final “okay” had been near-whispered, seconds ago, the term “angel” lingering in the air. It was a benediction, not a distinction, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but wonder how he hadn’t realized that it hadn’t been a classification for quite some time, not when Crowley was the one saying it. 

He found himself overwhelmed by Crowley’s smile. It was if the demon was lit from the inside. Aziraphale could barely look at him in his raw beauty — soot still streaked across his cheeks, auburn and ginger hair muddied with ash that peppered the fabric on the demon’s shoulders — and wondered if this is how Crowley felt when he had to appear more angelic, bathed in holy light. The corners of Crowley’s mouth that had stubbornly remained turned down in a permanent smirk for millennia were now turned up and stretched across his face. 

He didn’t want to finish that last statement for Crowley, shouldn’t place the words in the demon’s mouth like the warm, moist air he had breathed between Crowley’s lips. Aziraphale kept his hand on Crowley’s cheek, wriggling with delight as the demon’s eyes closed and he leaned into Aziraphale’s fingers.

_To our side._

It was so much more than a toast. They had only spent two hours together since they had left Tadfield but that time seemed simultaneously endless and far too short, by Aziraphale’s internal calculation, to span the scope of what had happened. 

The small clinking sound of their wineglasses roused Aziraphale from his stupor. It stood out in relief against the low hum of electricity in Crowley’s kitchen and the pounding of Aziraphale’s needless heart. He leaned forward and placed his now-empty wineglass on the counter.

Crowley immediately gripped his free hand again, tangling their fingers before locking them together with a squeeze. His eyes were gold and backlit with the same emotions carried in his broken, “Okay, angel” — things that Aziraphale could still not define without Crowley himself. 

Yet, Aziraphale knew that they had to talk. At the very least, he had to give his own thoughts a voice, one that Crowley could understand. 

With the apocalypse imminent, at the end of all things, Aziraphale could only think of the words that would hurt Crowley the most in that moment. 

But Crowley, gorgeous, clever, brilliant Crowley, had responded by stopping time itself. 

“Crowley I—“

He trailed off, unsure as of how to proceed.

They were still pressed against each other, Crowley’s back resting against the countertop, his glass next to Aziraphale’s with a slight red tinge lingering at the bottom of the bowl. Aziraphale could feel Crowley twitch slightly, sending a pleasant shiver through his body. 

Still clinging to his hand, Aziraphale felt Crowley take a step to the side, shifting himself away from both the countertop and Aziraphale. He felt the loss of warmth immediately and resisted the urge to shift his hips forward, refusing to let Crowley break that contact. 

“M’going to take care of…” 

Crowley interrupted himself to run his fingers through his hair, scratching the back of his next and sending a shower of ash onto the kitchen tile. 

“This,” he finished lamely, gesturing towards the soot-stained floor. 

“Ah!”

Aziraphale collected himself and stood up straighter, beaming up at Crowley.

“Well, my dear, I always find that a nice, warm bath sets me to rights immediately. Take your time I’ll just read a book in the meantime.”

He didn’t know if Crowley had any books in his flat, but could certainly miracle one if necessary. It wasn’t as if he had anything to lose by using up a stray miracle, what with the apocalypse staved off for the time being while Heaven regrouped. 

“A bath?”

Crowley scoffed. Aziraphale perked up even more at the familiar sound. It was the most Crowley had sounded or looked like himself since accosting him on the street about Alpha Centauri. 

At the memory of this, Aziraphale’s shoulders drooped. He dropped his eyes to the small pile of ash that had gathered at Crowley’s feet.

“Of course you’re a bath person, angel. You’re the biggest hedonist I know,” Crowley finished saying. 

Aziraphale automatically bristled, a shiver of delight accompanying his immediate defense. 

“That is a most uncharitable estimation of my character,” he responded with a roll of his shoulders, snapping his eyes up back to Crowley’s.

It was familiar territory — bantering between them, taking small steps both forwards and backwards to end at precisely the same end. This momentarily grounding Aziraphale until he looked up at Crowley’s eyes. The expected smirk and wry look had been replaced by a more open affection. Since the demon began wearing them, he had always longed to pull Crowley’s dark glasses from his face. He now wondered if this tenderness had been there all along, or if it had been there for a certain amount of time. 

_Since when?_

His unspoken question lingered in the air. Aziraphale could taste it alongside the sharpness of wine and dull smoke-scent. 

He shook his head, realizing that Crowley’s lips were still moving.

“—showers do the same thing and much more efficiently.”

“You mean you’ve never taken a bath?” Aziraphale asked, dragging his wayward thoughts back to the conversation at hand.

“Don’t be daft. Of course I’ve taken a bath, angel. You’ve taken baths with me.”

At this, Crowley leered and raised his eyebrows suggestively. It was second nature to their comfortable teasing, but he couldn’t quite rid his face of fondness. 

“Would you like to?” Aziraphale blurted out. 

The shocked look on Crowley’s face was tinged at the edges with a bit of fear and, to Aziraphale’s delight, no small amount of desire. Aziraphale reached forward, grazing the back of his fingernails against Crowley’s cheek. Gasping, Crowley leaned into the touch. 

“Are you flirting with me, angel?”

Aziraphale stood on his toes, back straight and shoulders squared, wriggling as he continue to stroke Crowley’s face. 

“My dear, I do believe that I am.”

It was the same dance, the same give and take, push and pull, but wholly different at the same time. 

Crowley beamed.

Aziraphale snapped his fingers and placed his other hand in Crowley’s so that both were palm to palm with the demon’s, rubbing at the coarse, granular soot. 

“Lead the way.”

He expected Crowley to move immediately, with the speed of a striking snake as the demon had on the bus, grabbing Aziraphale’s hand and squeezing it tightly. Yet, Crowley meandered instead, slowly leading Aziraphale through his main hallway towards the back of the flat. Aziraphale looked around, taking in the high, unfurnished ceilings, sparse lighting fixtures, and matte grey tones. Tendrils of bright green peered out of one of the rooms, spilling out into the hallway. In his periphery, Aziraphale also took note of a rather suggestive statue, what appeared to be a throne, and a wooden lectern—

“Oh, _Crowley_ ,” Aziraphale said. “How long?”

Crowley raised an eyebrow, looking back at Aziraphale resolutely, but refusing to follow the path of the angel’s eyes. 

“The bathroom is right past the—“ The demon stopped in the entryway and looked back at Aziraphale again, this time with a teasing smile. 

“Performing some more frivolous miracles, eh angel? Miracling me a massive claw-foot bathtub that I definitely didn’t have before isn’t exactly going to convince me of a lack of hedonism.”

“Oh, you—”

“Are these mermaids on the taps?” Crowley asked. 

He leaned forward, running his fingers over four gold fixtures that had embedded themselves into his monotone, grey wall. 

“Also how many taps do you need? It’s just hot and cold water.”

Aziraphale smiled and waved his hand. Water and soap began running from them at varying speeds. 

Crowley rolled his eyes and began shedding his tie and outer jacket. 

Licking his lips, Aziraphale stared at Crowley, reaching up towards his own neck and loosening his bowtie. 

Upon realizing that Aziraphale was watching him, Crowley slowed down, moving his hips in a way that was inhuman and much more snake-like. 

“Don’t,” Crowley said suddendly. Aziraphale paused, his fingers around the topmost button of his own waistcoat. Confused, Aziraphale shrank back a bit. 

Crowley shook his head. 

“No, angel it’s nothing like that, I—“ The demon knotted his fingers in his hair, tugging at it in frustration. 

“Sorry, I’m not good at this,” Crowley said, gesturing at the space between them. 

In one smooth motion he somehow shed the rest of his clothes. Aziraphale’s eyes widened, a blush rising through his entire body as he took Crowley in. It wasn’t the first time he had seen the demon naked, but the context of this particular situation was certainly different. His mouth felt dry, and he darted his tongue out again to lick his lips, watching as Crowley’s eyes followed the motion. 

“This, I’m not good at—“ 

Crowley trailed off again.

“Let me do it,” the demon finally said after a long pause, reaching forward to brush Aziraphale’s hand aside and undo the angel's button himself. 

Aziraphale shivered. He continued to stare into Crowley’s eyes. The demon’s slit pupils were blown as widely as they possibly could be. Crowley’s breath was suddenly on Aziraphale’s neck, fingers deftly making their way down each button of his waistcoat. Crowley slid his arms down Aziraphale’s with the coat, letting it linger at his wrists in a small tangle. He could feel Crowley raking his fingernails against what would have been Aziraphale’s pulse points as the waistcoat fell to the floor, the pressure a promise of something else. 

“Crowley, dearest, I—“

Crowley’s fingers returned to his dress shirt, slowly undoing those buttons in similar fashion. The demon’s breath was still hot against Aziraphale’s neck. Aziraphale tipped his head back, granting Crowley further access to lick and suck at the sensitive spot under his jawline, another pressure point that was oh so human and sent waves of pleasure through Aziraphale’s body.

“You must be joking,” Crowley growled. 

“Why—“ 

Crowley stepped back and raised Aziraphale’s arms in the air, holding his hands together forcefully. Aziraphale shivered again. 

“Are you wearing—“

With his other hand, Crowley tore at Aziraphale’s undershirt, finally revealing the angel’s smooth, pale skin.

“So many—“

Crowley pressed a fierce kiss to Aziraphale’s lips, moving the shirt up the angel’s arms.

“Bloody—“

Another kiss. 

“Layers?”

The undershirt fell on the floor alongside his waistcoat and dress shirt. 

Aziraphale giggled, pressing a kiss to Crowley’s forehead. Growling again, Crowley pinned Aziraphale’s arms behind his back with one hand, long slender fingers making quick work of his trousers and pants. They joined the rest of Aziraphale’s clothes on the floor. Pressing his hips forward, Aziraphale gasped as his skin moved against Crowley’s. A crackle of something like electricity and altogether inhuman moved with Aziraphale’s hips. He tried to move his hands, but Crowley still had them bound by his fingers. 

“Crowley, let me touch—“

“The taps, angel.”

Shaking, straining his hands against Crowley’s grip, Aziraphale snapped his fingers. Crowley continued to suck on his neck, tongue lapping beneath his ear. The light bubbling sounds of water stopped, tapering off into a slow drip. 

“I’ve dreamed about this. I’ve dreamed about you for so long,” Crowley moaned. The demon’s breath was hot against Aziraphale’s cheek. 

“H-how long?” he asked again, arching his back as Crowley flicked a tongue in his ear.. 

“The Garden,” Crowley said. His voice cracked as the words left his mouth in a voice no louder than a whisper. 

“Since The Garden, angel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is going fairly slowly, but the prompter did give permission to drag it out a bit and the title of the prompt was "tender post-Apocalypse fucking" so . . .


	4. Hour Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Ah, that is rather warm,” Aziraphale said._
> 
> _“Oh for fuck’s sake, get in the tub, you bastard.”_

_Since The Garden, angel._

For Aziraphale, these four words meant more than if Crowley had said the conventional human three that inspired well over half of the literature and theatre in which the angel had been happily ensconced throughout the time of humanity. 

Four words, in Crowley’s low voice, breaking on the word “angel” as they tripped from Crowley’s lips, said with near-worship rang in Aziraphale’s ears. His hands were still intertwined with Crowley’s, pinned above his head with Crowley’s tongue working its way behind Aziraphale’s ear. 

Aziraphale trembled.

_Since The Garden, angel._

And perhaps Crowley was still saying it, whispering it to Aziraphale over and over in between softly sucking on the angel’s neck. He squirmed against Crowley, gasping at the friction between their bodies. It grounded him — like the sour scent of Crowley’s breath and bitterness of ash — as Crowley sucked at his pulse and the crackling feeling of something in the air far larger than either of their corporations threatened to carry him away. 

_Since The Garden, angel._

If Aziraphale was being truly honest with himself — he was so rarely, but barely surviving a near-Apocalypse will do that to an angel — he already knew the truth of those three words that humans so frequently wished for. 

He loved Crowley and Crowley had loved him _since the garden_.

Aziraphale moaned loudly, squirming against Crowley. The demon’s hands were beginning to chafe against Aziraphale’s wrists, and the angel could feel the grittiness of soot and ash between his palms. 

“M-my dear boy.”

Crowley continued to kiss him.

“Dearest.” 

Undeterred, Crowley turned, dragging Aziraphale with him and half-pinning the angel to the side of the tub. Aziraphale gasped at the coolness of the ceramic porcelain lip and sighed at the warm air rising from the bathwater. 

“Crowle-ee-y.”

His voice ended in an embarrassingly breathy squeak as he spoke Crowley’s name, rising in pitch as Crowley moved down to his clavicle. Crowley hummed against Aziraphale’s skin in response. 

“Were y-you not going to take a bath?”

At these words, the demon moved away from Aziraphale’s collarbone with a sigh, releasing the angel’s hands. Aziraphale shivered. 

Pausing to clear his head, Aziraphale studied Crowley. The demon stared back, almost flinching under the scrutiny. His pupils were blown out and he was panting, his tanned skin flushed and still streaked with soot. 

Admittedly, Aziraphale had always found Crowley attractive, but it had been in a less physical way. Crowley’s presence, his very being, was gorgeous in a way that Aziraphale had not allowed himself to admit until this very evening. 

Imagine, an angel describing a demon as gorgeous. 

Now, Aziraphale found himself attracted to Crowley in a significantly more human way. The love of Crowley at the demon’s essence, the non-physical and spiritual — for lack of a better word, Crowley would certainly growl and yell about what a fearsome demon he was if Aziraphale were to mention anything of the sort aloud — was still present, but there was an added physical urgency that had settled in Aziraphale’s core. 

Crowley was beautiful in this way, a mortal, fleeting way, as well. 

These thoughts descended on Aziraphale as he studied Crowley’s body. Perhaps it was because, for the first time in his vast existence, Aziraphale could feel that an end to his life was possible, imminent even. Through his study and appreciation of Crowley’s form, Aziraphale felt more connected to humanity than ever.

This night could be all that they had left. 

“If I’m remembering correctly, we were going to take a bath,” Crowley said hoarsely.

The demon sounded a bit breathless, despite the fact that Aziraphale knew Crowley didn’t need to breathe, and rang in his ears. Crowley placed particular emphasis on the word “we” that sent a tingle through Aziraphale’s body. It was an invitation and a command wrapped into one, since Aziraphale had admittedly already accepted the former. 

He shivered. Now to follow the latter. 

_Since The Garden, angel._

Crowley’s words repeated inside his mind. 

He looked up to see that the demon had backed away after a few seconds of silence, uncertain and slouching next to the tub. Aziraphale could feel tension radiating from Crowley, filling the room alongside the steam rising from the surface of the bath. 

He held out his hand. 

“Crowley, join me.”

Through the years, Aziraphale had lamented that their friendship couldn’t be simple. If he was particularly and spectacularly intoxicated, he had lamented — only to himself, of course — that he couldn’t love Crowley simply, not with their sides to be considered. 

Crowley lifted his hand to meet Aziraphale’s, touching their palms together first before cinching their fingers together, intertwining them. The demon pressed a needy, fierce kiss to Aziraphale’s knuckles. 

Now, it was as simple as saying “Join me” and Crowley would be there. Aziraphale’s mouth broadened widely into a radiant smile. He watched as Crowley turned his eyes away, startled and sheepish, a slight flush gracing the demon’s cheeks. 

“Join me,” Aziraphale said firmly as he lifted his leg over the side of the tub. 

Crowley’s eyes returned to follow Aziraphale’s calf as he moved, roaming up his thigh. Aziraphale watched the demon lick his lips hungrily, and slowed his movements to just barely touch a toe to the surface, sending ripples through the water. 

“Ah, that is rather warm,” Aziraphale said. 

“Oh for fuck’s sake, get in the tub, you bastard.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help but hear that “you bastard” was said in the same, fond tone as the demon said “angel.”

Crowley unceremoniously splashed into the tub, pulling Aziraphale with him. 

“Really now! There’s no need to push, dearest.”

Something in Crowley’s eyes glittered as he drew close, his breath hot against Aziraphale’s face, mixing with the floral-scented steam. 

“Pusssssssh? Angel, I haven’t begun to pussssssh.”

As Aziraphale looked down into the water, he realized that his hand was still in Crowley’s. Looking up into Crowley’s eyes, he saw a flurry of emotions flickering through his bright yellow irises: confusion, hesitation, sadness, desire, hope. 

Aziraphale had always assumed that Crowley was particularly adept at Lust. It was one of the seven, after all, and Crowley himself moved through space like he owned it, displacing all other beings in the vicinity to keep eyes focused solely on him. Aziraphale had noticed as Crowley’s outfits had grown increasingly form-fitting through the years, to the point where it seemed that Crowley poured himself into his clothing, all sharp angles and a wanton stride that Aziraphale couldn’t help but follow before blinking away thoughts of temptation. Crowley had always been tempting him; ergo, Crowley tempted all. 

He had made many assumptions about Crowley through the years, and it was only now, at the near-end of all things, that Aziraphale was realizing his mistake. 

Aziraphale squared his shoulders and sat up in the bath. 

“Crowley, turn around for me please.”

His tone was a no-nonsense command and Crowley, confused, obliged without saying a word. 

Aziraphale sighed as he sunk a bit deeper into the warm water. He released Crowley’s hand and grazed a manicured fingertip across Crowley’s back, watching the water run in rivulets down his bare spine. 

Crowley shivered. 

“A-angel.”

Slowly snapping his fingers, Aziraphale summoned a soft flannel into his hand and a generous amount of soap in the other. 

“You’re filthy, dearest.”

It was said softly, matter-of-factly without a hint of seduction. Crowley shivered regardless, whining as Aziraphale rubbed the soapy flannel gently between his shoulderblades, where his wings would have been. 

“Ngkk.”

“It’s been a long day, Crowley.”

Aziraphale scrubbed at the soot caked onto Crowley’s neck. He pulled at Crowley’s hair, lathering it with soap and watched as flakes of ash fell into the water, quickly vanishing into the bath. At some point in his ministrations, Aziraphale’s chin came to rest on Crowley’s shoulder, pressing into his wet hair which dripped into Aziraphale’s eyes. He leaned further forward, flush against Crowley’s back, cheek against Crowley’s cheek. 

The demon shuddered violently with a soft cry. 

Blinking, the angel realized that Crowley was sobbing. 

“Do you want me to stop?” 

Crowley shook his head, sending a spray of water into the air. Aziraphale smiled, running his hands down the demon’s arms until he threaded his fingers into Crowley’s and held him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this ended up so sad. T_T I promise the next chapter will be a bit happier (and more sensual). They just have a lot to get through.


	5. Hour Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Crowley,” he said again, leaning his forehead so it touched Crowley’s own._
> 
> _They sat like this for what seemed, to Aziraphale, at least an hour — facing each other foreheads pressed, noses nearly touching, breathing in each other’s breath and scented steam from the bathwater, which miraculously never grew cold._
> 
> _“Can I—“_
> 
> _Crowley’s voice trailed off as he gestured with his hands and the flannel towards Aziraphale’s hair._
> 
> _“—like you did for me?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time I say I'm going to update one of my multi-chapter stories, it's never the one I think, so apologies to those of you who were (and still are) waiting on Solitary Sequel/Can We Dance. ^ ^;
> 
> I'm still on a business trip and out of my home country, so updates will be sporadic until mid-November. Again, apologies and thank you so much to everyone who follows, kudoses, and comments on my work. It means more than you know.

While working his hands through Crowley’s hair, Aziraphale settled into a pleasing rhythm. Crowley’s hair was thick with soot and what Aziraphale presumed was some sort of human styling product. Steam rose from the murky surface of the bathwater, erasing the acrid scent of burnt paper and rubber. 

Before today, Aziraphale had rarely seen the demon with a hair out of place. Of the two of them, Crowley was the only one who cared about fitting in with humanity. Aziraphale had long since settled on who he wanted to be while on Earth, what he wanted to concern himself with — books, primarily, and other forms of human art — and hadn’t updated his fashion all that much since approximately the Edwardian era. By contrast, Crowley rarely seemed satisfied with much of anything, changing his appearance with the times and indulging in the latest fashions. 

And now, the demon was effectively seated in his lap in rose and lavender-scented bathwater, allowing Aziraphale to wash him. 

Aziraphale alternated between carding his fingers through the demon’s hair — the hair itself softening as some sort of stiff gel dissolved into the water along with flecks of ash — and lathering his hands with more soap, continuing a cycle of rinsing, lathering, and washing. Occasionally he would lean forward again, running his hands down the sides of Crowley’s neck all the way to the demon’s slender fingers. He rested his chin on Crowley’s shoulder, eyes closed.

Crowley tensed up every time, as soon as Aziraphale’s head touched his neck, but relaxed more quickly with each passing embrace. The demon was so relaxed that he nodded off once or twice, head lolling back into Aziraphale’s chest, resting on the curve of his rounded belly. Human corporations had such odd quirks, and Crowley had certainly trained his to sleep efficiently. 

Bemused, Aziraphale dug his hands into Crowley’s hair once more. 

It was a relaxing pattern and profoundly intimate in a way that Aziraphale had never experienced with another being before. 

Naturally Aziraphale had been friends with a few humans through the years. His preferences lay with artists, masters of literature and prose. Yet whenever it seemed that a human was becoming too close, Aziraphale would distance himself as to not hurt them more than he possibly had to. 

The being he had been closest to, despite not seeing him for centuries at a time through the years, was none other than Crowley. Humans he could keep at a figurative arm’s length, appreciating them in the same manner that they regarded their own animal pets. But Crowley, Crowley inspired genuine sentiment, against Aziraphale’s better judgment. 

A tear leaked out of his eye, unbidden. It was a startling epiphany for the angel who had, just earlier this evening, compared Crowley’s presence to something in a human’s periphery vision. 

And he hadn’t even known where Crowley had lived before this evening. 

Aziraphale bit his lip to prevent more tears, although one fell from his reddening cheek onto Crowley’s chest. 

He reached towards the abandoned flannel that he had rinsed and draped over the side of the tub once he had wiped Crowley’s face free of soot and tears only to find that Crowley’s hand was quicker, grabbing the flannel out from under his fingertips. 

“Crowley?”

Aziraphale looked up as the demon moved from Aziraphale’s lap completely, turning around to face him. Water beaded at the tips of Crowley’s auburn hair, dripping down onto the demon’s face. Crowley’s eyes were soft and impossibly bright, as if the yellow was lit from within Crowley himself. 

“Oh.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help but let out a sigh at the sight. He had seen Crowley’s eyes so rarely for thousands upon thousands of years — since humans had invented tinted lenses — that they struck him in place as Crowley reached up, flannel in hand, to wipe the tears from Aziraphale’s face. 

“Crowley,” he said again, leaning his forehead so it touched Crowley’s own. 

They sat like this for what seemed, to Aziraphale, at least an hour — facing each other foreheads pressed, noses nearly touching, breathing in each other’s breath and scented steam from the bathwater, which miraculously never grew cold. 

“Can I—“ 

Crowley’s voice trailed off as he gestured with his hands and the flannel towards Aziraphale’s hair. 

“—like you did for me?”

Aziraphale smiled and nodded. 

“Of course, dearest.”

He turned around to sit in the same position that Crowley had been in when they first entered the bath, back pressed against Crowley’s chest and perched in the demon’s lap. Crowley squirmed a bit, breathing in heavily before touching his fingertips to Aziraphale’s curls. Aziraphale could barely feel it. Crowley touched him so gingerly, as if he would break. 

“Mmmm, Crowley?”

The demon’s hands stilled, frozen in Aziraphale’s hair. Aziraphale couldn’t see his face, but he imagined a pained, slightly guilty look. 

“You can be less gentle, dear. Even I enjoy a rigourous scalp massage once in a while.”

Crowley nodded. The tip of his nose touched one of the damp curls at Aziraphale’s neck. 

Aziraphale shivered. 

“Cold, angel?”

This time Crowley’s voice was teasing as he dug his hands into Aziraphale’s hair, raking his fingernails against his scalp.

Aziraphale shuddered again, wiggling against Crowley’s lap. 

“Doessssss—“

Crowley interrupted himself, hands stilling again. Aziraphale heard him swallow. 

“Does that feel good?” Crowley asked, sans sibilant. His voice was still a bit hesitant, reflected in the way his hands moved a bit more slowly through Aziraphale’s hair. 

Aziraphale hummed, wriggling again until he could feel Crowley, hard and pressed up against his backside. 

Crowley hissed, thrusting up towards Aziraphale. 

As Aziraphale tried to turn around to face Crowley again, the demon’s hands pressed down into his shoulders, preventing him from moving. The flannel fell into the bathwater, floating for a moment before sinking to the bottom of the tub. Aziraphale shuddered again, feeling Crowley’s hot breath against his ear. 

Crowley began sucking underneath Aziraphale’s earlobe, where a human pulse quickened rapidly. Aziraphale moaned, growing hard and continuing to squirm against Crowley’s length, held in place by the demon’s strength and Crowley’s tongue licking water from his neck. 

Slowly, Crowley’s left hand crept down beneath the water. It cupped Aziraphale, fingers pressing gently down on the tip. 

Aziraphale’s hips bucked forward, involuntarily rubbing against Crowley’s palm for more friction.

“ _Crowley!_ ”

“Angel.” 

Crowley’s response was somehow firm and breathless. His lips were on Aziraphale’s collarbones, sucking round bruises into the flesh above them. 

Aziraphale hadn’t even known that human collarbones were sensitive. He somehow hadn’t come across this information in his literary travels, despite having read several books of erotica out of curiosity and having frequented a gentlemen's club. Perhaps he'd read the wrong books.

Or perhaps he simply hadn’t paid enough attention. 

A moan escaped Aziraphale. He felt Crowley chuckle against his skin. The demon was still palming him while also grinding against his backside. Aziraphale had never felt so overwhelmed, save when Crowley had first kissed him an hour or two ago. 

“Angel?”

It was a question this time. Aziraphale moaned in response. He was certain that he presented, at this moment in time, a ridiculously shameful figure, rutting against a demon’s palm while simultaneously grinding against that same demon’s cock.

“Would you like to take this to the bedroom?” Crowley asked.

There was still a slight hint of hesitation in Crowley’s voice. The demon went completely still for the briefest second. At every point, Crowley was reminding him that he didn’t have to do this, reiterating that Aziraphale had a choice. 

Aziraphale nodded.


	6. Hour Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _How did you know I would ever be ready?_
> 
> _Aziraphale thought this to himself, frowning slightly. It was hardly an explanation, although Aziraphale felt like he understood Crowley a bit more despite the demon’s inability to clarify._
> 
> _Crowley growled and rolled his hips. Aziraphale arched into him._
> 
> _“Angel,” Crowley said. “Stop thinking.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where this fic earns its E rating.

Grace had always been something that Aziraphale had associated with Crowley — not divine grace or the grace of heaven but the way that the demon moved through space. 

Regardless of the human era — and variety of trappings that Aziraphale was loathe to track, save out of curiosity whenever they appeared on Crowley — Crowley was always long and elegant, commanding the attention of a room effortlessly. The few times they’d happened upon each other over the years, Crowley had always appeared not only outwardly beautiful, but inwardly lit with an untouchable elegance that Aziraphale had admired.

In his ever-so-slight lapses of propriety and duty, Aziraphale would have admitted to being just a touch jealous of Crowley for this. 

This was oddly the first thought that came to mind when Crowley lurched awkwardly out of the bathtub, nearly falling onto the floor in the process. The demon quickly rallied, producing a large, fluffy towel with a snap of his fingers before frantically scrubbing at his hair as if it would dry out of sheer vigour. 

Aziraphale suppressed a small giggle. 

He wondered why Crowley hadn’t simply snapped his fingers to dry his hair. Crowley had always been the more human one, between the two of them, and this was simply another example of that fact. Aziraphale instinctively hoped that his face was hiding at least some of the fondness he had for Crowley before catching himself mid-thought and realizing that this too did not matter. 

He could look at Crowley however he wanted. 

“Angel?”

Crowley’s voice wasn’t as breathless as it had been moments before but was equally hesitant as Aziraphale tore his eyes away from Crowley’s hair and looked down to see a proffered towel. Brushing his hands lightly against Crowley’s fingertips, Aziraphale looked back up to see a slightly sheepish grin on the demon’s face, damp hair sticking up every which way and light flush over his cheeks, eyes golden and bright. 

Aziraphale supposed his answering look to Crowley was full of fondness. He tried to pour every ounce of his being into it. 

He’d made the assumption — an assumption that was appearing increasingly erroneous by the second — that Crowley was significantly more experienced than he was, despite the aforementioned gentlemen’s club trips and forays into written erotica. When Crowley had asked moments ago if Aziraphale would like to take this to the bedroom, he had imagined Crowley sweeping him up and somehow miracling their way into the bedroom of Crowley’s flat without a split-second of separation between their lips. 

Instead, Crowley was awkwardly standing naked in what Aziraphale was quickly realizing was a rather sparse and modest — “Minimalist, angel, it’s the new trend” had he asked Crowley to describe it — bathroom, made to feel even smaller due to the large tub that Aziraphale had conjured into it. A rivulet of water grazed Crowley’s eyelashes before dripping down the side of his face. 

Aziraphale reached up and traced it with a finger, down to the demon’s angular chin. Crowley leaned into the touch. 

“Sssshall we?” Crowley asked, swallowing loudly. 

His cheek was still resting against Aziraphale’s palm, and Aziraphale marvelled at the tension there. Stroking his thumb against Crowley’s chin, Aziraphale held Crowley’s gaze for a moment. The demon’s eyes were somehow hooded and impossibly wide, shining as his slit pupils dilated. Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s lip tremble slightly as he stared back at him. 

“My dear,” he said softly, caressing Crowley’s cheek with his index finger. “I do believe we shall.”

Aziraphale ran his fingers lightly down Crowley’s neck and side before scraping the backs of his fingers against Crowley’s wrist and locking their hands together with a tight grasp. Crowley shuddered and allowed himself to be led by Aziraphale out of the bathroom until the angel paused in the hallway, feeling Crowley bump into him at the sudden stop. 

“Ah, I’m terribly sorry, Crowley but I don’t actually know the way to your bedroom.”

The tension broke, almost as if Aziraphale could hear an audible snap, and Crowley laughed deeply. It was unrestrained and bright. 

Aziraphale allowed himself the passing thought that if they made it through this somehow, he would dedicate himself to making Crowley laugh like this every day. 

He felt Crowley squeeze his hand before stepping forward and leading them back down the hallway past the room with an inordinate amount of plants and to a lone door at the end. 

In the doorway Aziraphale paused again, this time to stand on tiptoes and kiss Crowley languidly, as if they had much more time than a few hours left. Crowley melted against him. 

The demon’s body was slightly cool and damp and his hipbones dug into the softer flesh around Aziraphale’s waist. Before Aziraphale could pull away in a flash of embarrassment and quick memory of Gabriel’s pointed verbal jabs at the state of his corporation, Crowley’s tongue was in his mouth and Crowley’s hands were scrabbling at his shoulders, kneading into the flesh there while pressing against Aziraphale tightly. Aziraphale moved his hands down onto Crowley’s backside and squeezed. Crowley whimpered into Aziraphale’s mouth — a guttural sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. 

It was overwhelming in a way that Aziraphale wholly expected but it still caught him off-guard in practice. No wonder humanity had produced so many works of art around this very thing, confusing it with a more divine love. 

_Since The Garden, angel_ echoed again in Aziraphale’s mind and now having experienced a taste of this, he cannot understand how Crowley was able to hold these emotions back for so long. 

“Crowley,” he panted into the demon’s mouth when they finally separated long enough to stumble and sink into Crowley’s four-poster bed. “How did you bear it all these years?”

Equally stunned and dizzy with longing, it took a moment before a flash of recognition appeared in Crowley’s eyes. 

“I couldn’t—“

Crowley interrupted himself and pressed another quick kiss to Aziraphale’s neck, causing the angel to shudder. 

“It wasssssn’t—“

He felt the heel of Crowley’s palm pressing lightly against his tip, rolling it back and forth. Aziraphale cried out, bucking his hips forward into Crowley. Crowley groaned and pulled Aziraphale down on top of him, sinking further into the layers of plush down blankets. 

“I’m not good at that part,” Crowley finally finished breathlessly. “I fantasized about this. About you—“

An image of Crowley, head tilted back in ecstasy, hand around his cock, came to mind and Aziraphale couldn’t help the moan that escaped his lips.

“It couldn’t have happened,” Crowley continued. “You weren’t ready.”

_How did you know I would ever be ready?_

Aziraphale thought this to himself, frowning slightly. It was hardly an explanation, although Aziraphale felt like he understood Crowley a bit more despite the demon’s inability to clarify.

Crowley growled and rolled his hips. Aziraphale arched into him. 

“Angel,” Crowley said. “Stop thinking.”

Aziraphale smiled at this confidence, a shadow of the admittedly melodramatic scene he had painted in his head earlier of Crowley sweeping him into the bedroom. Instead of pressing Crowley for a more thorough answer, he responded by thrusting his hips down onto Crowley, delighting in the friction it caused. 

Crowley groaned again, pressing his hand back between them. He wrapped his hand around the length of Aziraphale, teasing the tip until it began to leak. Aziraphale’s breaths could only come in sharp pants, punctuated by longer gasps and moans as he squirmed against Crowley. He moved his hands down Crowley’s thigh, gripping it tightly when he couldn’t reach between them.

Somehow Crowley was everywhere. Aziraphale couldn’t hope to keep up. Crowley suddenly went from stroking him to teasing the tip with his tongue, pressing it down onto the slit before sucking gently. Crowley’s hands were at his sides, caressing his thighs, somehow both curious and deft. Aziraphale was coming before he knew it, screaming Crowley’s name before he could tell him to stop and take this slower. He saw stars in his periphery as Crowley swallowed and lapped as he softened.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale whimpered, collapsing onto demon. He weakly reached down to return the favour, feeling the weight of Crowley still pressed up against him, but Crowley guided his arms back down and slid his body up, enveloping him in a hug instead. Crowley’s breath was hot on his forehead and Crowley’s nose buried in his messy curls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this (and my other incomplete GO fics) have gone so long without updates. Work has been insanely busy for me. For future reference, since a few people have asked, if a story truly was abandoned or even on hiatus indefinitely, I would be sure to make a note about it in the text and I would mark it complete. So, this story (and all of my other incomplete GO fics) are decidedly not abandoned. The updates themselves will just be slower than they were this past summer. Sorry about that and I hope you can continue to enjoy the stories regardless.


	7. Hour Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Mere hours ago, Aziraphale had hesitated to sit next to Crowley on an otherwise empty public bus._
> 
> _Of course Crowley would feel like he continuously had to ask. He was more shocked at this point that Crowley hadn’t given up and stopped asking altogether._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyyy . . . this fic is not dead. ^ ^; 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has read and enjoyed this thus far. I'm sorry for the delays. I get a lot into my own head about how to finish things, even if they're already outlined/plotted out, especially in a fandom like GO where there are SO MANY AMAZING WRITERS. 
> 
> Your encouragement means a lot.

Aziraphale could count on a single hand the amount of times he had slept in his near-immortal existence. 

Sleep was not something that came to him naturally — quips about being an angel and not a human predisposed towards needing sleep aside. After all it came quite naturally to Crowley, who had once slept for over a century, and he needed sleep just as much as Aziraphale did, which is to say, not at all. 

At night, Aziraphale usually fixed himself several cups of tea and settled in with a good book. On the days that he had acquired something particularly valuable or interesting for his own personal collection, he closed the shop early, not caring as the light outside grew faint, then went completely dark, then grew light again. During these times, he didn’t open up the shop at all, stretching across his plush chaise lounge with whatever snacks he had on hand. 

Putting it more simply, sleep was ultimately pointless when there were so many wonderful books waiting to be read and rediscovered. Crowley had tried to convince him otherwise on a few occasions, but he had never seen the same point or purpose.

It was still dark when he awoke, so he couldn’t have slept more than an hour or so. During that time, Crowley had dimmed the lights but hadn’t moved much. Aziraphale felt the sharpness of the demon’s chin digging into his shoulder, the slight chill of Crowley’s arms as they wrapped around his belly — tickling his skin and resting just above the darker curls below. 

He felt the warmth of Crowley’s breath, at odds with the rest of the demon’s human corporation which always seemed ever-so-slightly too cold for comfort. His bangs grazed his eyelashes and obstructed his view, moving slightly with every breath Crowley took. 

Aziraphale wondered why Crowley breathed at all in his sleep, but again decided that this was because Crowley was the more social one and certainly the more human one of the two of them. 

He had started thinking of their relationship in terms of “the two of them” and a slow smile crept across Aziraphale’s face as he fought the urge to wriggle with happiness, lest he wake Crowley by moving. 

_The two of them. He was one of the two of them._

Despite his seeming lack of sexual experience, perhaps Crowley had slept with other people before in the same bed, and that was how he had learned to breathe in his sleep. Aziraphale had also learned to have a go at breathing whenever he was in the company of others. 

Perhaps breathing deeply came as naturally to Crowley as sleeping and he’d just never had the chance to be close enough to the demon for any length of time to notice. 

Squirming his shoulders and still a bit giddy, Aziraphale twisted his head as much as he could to take in Crowley’s sleeping face. 

He had often heard and read humans describe their lovers’ sleeping faces as at peace — the way that facial muscles relaxed, unbidden and unburdened by the weight of the day or having to exist. One book had said that the years “melted away” from an already young man’s face, making him look like a contented boy.

Crowley’s lips twitched but otherwise he looked very much the same, save the fact that he was visibly at peace. Honestly it was a bit disappointing, although Crowley did look stunning as always, albeit in a different way than usual. 

Well, it wasn’t the first time that humanity had exaggerated about something in fiction and Aziraphale was certain that it wouldn’t be the last. That was the purpose of fiction. Still, upon further inspection, there was something about Crowley in this moment that was remarkably—

“Angel.” 

Crowley’s voice was slurred with sleep. Aziraphale felt the vibrations from his voice against his cheek, lips brushing against it gently. 

“I can hear you thinking.”

“I’m sorry my dear. I’ll go read in the other room so I don’t disturb your sleep.”

Aziraphale moved to pull away from Crowley, but the demon drew him closer, tightening the arms wrapped around his waist. 

“N’so fasssssst, Angel.”

Crowley thrust his hips forward in a fluid motion, rubbing his erection into Aziraphale’s buttocks. 

Gasping, Aziraphale couldn’t help rutting forward into the sheets with a moan. 

“Much rather do something else…” Crowley’s voice was thick with sleep and arousal as he dug his fingertips harder into Aziraphale’s sides, releasing the skin before his touch had a chance to grow painful or bruise the skin. 

Aziraphale wasn’t certain if he would bruise. He’d never done this before. 

Crowley languidly pressed up against his backside again, rolling his hips. The demon had always had tremendous hips and Aziraphale now admitted as he once again responded with a thrust of his own into the mattress, that he had sometimes watched them as Crowley had sauntered through so many of their meetings throughout the years. 

Part of him had always been watching Crowley, he realized in a heady rush, and Crowley—

Crowley had carefully sucked him off the night before without expectation or reciprocity. 

Even now, he could feel Crowley’s hesitation — the way the demon’s fingers twitched before reaching out to touch him, and the way his pulse leapt whenever Aziraphale moved. Crowley was inviting and somehow impossibly human despite knowing that he wasn’t a human but a supposed near-immortal enemy. 

With every slight pause, Crowley was asking a question. 

His hands rested on Aziraphale’s hips, digging gently into the soft flesh at his sides.

_Is this okay?_

His lips parted against Aziraphale’s neck, pressing a wet, open-mouthed kiss against where his pulse would be, and at some times, is quite naturally, almost as if it had been there from the beginning. 

_Can I have this?_

His cock grinding into Aziraphale from behind.

_Can I have you?_

Despite Crowley washing him, sucking him off, and clinging to him as they slept, there was still a part of Crowley that was unsure. 

Aziraphale ran his teeth over his lower lip, biting back tears. He rarely had trouble holding back his emotions — to be quite honest, usually he had trouble feeling them himself, rather than simply recognizing them in others — but this was an extraordinary circumstance upon the other extraordinary circumstance of the near end of the world. 

Mere hours ago, Aziraphale had hesitated to sit next to Crowley on an otherwise empty public bus. 

Of course Crowley would feel like he continuously had to ask. He was more shocked at this point that Crowley hadn’t given up and stopped asking altogether. 

_How should he go about undoing 6,000 years of unanswered questions — feelings not unrequited, but certainly not recognized for what they were in the moment?_

_How was he supposed to tell Crowley, “Unequivocally. **Yes”?**_

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said abruptly. He imbued his tone with every ounce of his once-commanding heavenly presence. 

Despite currently being very much on the outs with his superiors, he had to have retained at least some of their necessary pomp. Crowley had said as much even throughout their most recent adventures together. 

The demon looked immediately terrified and began to pull away. 

“Angel I’m s—“

Aziraphale turned around to face Crowley, hands shooting out to capture his before the demon could fully untangle himself. 

“Crowley,” he repeated. “I’m here.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” He punctuated these words by squeezing Crowley’s hands softly, leaning forward to rub his nose against Crowley’s and breathe into the demon’s mouth. 

Crowley shuddered. His entire body trembled. 

“Let go,” Aziraphale said, desperation colouring his voice. 

“Please, Crowley. Let go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI the next chapter is going to be a HARD (pun kind of intended) E rating and the final chapter, unless I decide to expand on it with an epilogue, (but that won't be necessary from a plot standpoint).


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